


(Can't Give You) Anything But Love

by sullenhearts



Category: The Libertines
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 14:34:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11442897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sullenhearts/pseuds/sullenhearts
Summary: Title: (Can't Give You) Anything But LovePairing: Peter/CarlGenre: Young, dumb, and full of cum (totes a genre)Rating: All ages





	(Can't Give You) Anything But Love

**Author's Note:**

> Title: (Can't Give You) Anything But Love  
> Pairing: Peter/Carl  
> Genre: Young, dumb, and full of cum (totes a genre)  
> Rating: All ages

It was their anniversary. Yeah, Carl didn’t really go in for all that girly stuff, but still, he felt like the first anniversary of when you kissed a boy for the first time should be noted in some way. He knew that Peter knew when it was; he had written every single detail of that week in his diary, in excruciating detail, with diagrams and everything. And even if Peter had forgotten that it was this week – high summer last year, when London had simmered in the heat, when the tarmac melted and thunder clouds gathered each evening, releasing huge droplets just as they’d got off a bus after work, drenching them on the two minute walk from the bus stop so that they’d had to stand in the hallway and kick off their boots, peel off wet t-shirts and that plastic jacket Peter was insisting on wearing everywhere, and then they’d stood in front of each other as if looking at each other for the first time and when they’d kissed it has tasted of rain and the damp earth and the spliff Peter had lit up while they’d been waiting for the bus, and after that nothing had ever been the same again, and it was weird and different they had to be so much more careful about each other and with each other – that week, that beautiful gorgeous week when they’d done nothing but kiss and touch and explore and get used to each other – even IF Peter hadn’t remembered it was this week, he must have read it again because he’d been going over the diary from that time recently, looking for god knows that. He’d read the whole thing like he was reading a novel at bedtime, occasionally reading parts out, nudging Carl with his toes to make him pay attention. He had _mentioned_ some of that week, for fuck’s sake. He fucking _knew_ when it was.

The least he could’ve done would’ve been to mention it. 

Carl didn’t need presents or anything like that. Just a kiss would’ve done. 

Or a quick fuck. It was Sunday, so neither of them had anything to do. They could’ve just gone back to bed and had sex all day. They’d got quite good at it now, Carl had to say. At first it was difficult and frustrating, and although they’d each tried hard there was something missing. It turned out that fucking a man was different to fucking a girl, who’d’ve thought. 

Carl liked to thing he was alright at it now. Not Casanova, obviously, but not half bad either. Peter never seemed to mind it, anyhow.

Not that he was anywhere to be seen right now. He was in the kitchen, mooching around doing the washing up or something, whistling something fucking infuriating that he’d been whistling for days now. Carl kicked the edge of the sofa in frustration and reached for a cigarette.

There were none left in the packet. Carl crumpled it up angrily and reached for his jacket. 

“Off for fags,” he said, but he was halfway out the door when he said it and didn’t wait for any reply. 

There was a corner shop off licence one way, a bit scruffy round the edges and the cigarettes were a few pence more, but Carl couldn’t be bothered walking to the small supermarket a few more streets away for the sake of that. 

The rack of cards just inside the door of the offy caught Carl’s eye. He could buy one, just scrawl a few words in it, make something of the day. 

He _could_.

He was sulking, though.

The thing was that Peter never remembered things. Not the little things and not the big things. He’d frown very hard and try to remember, or at least do a good impression of someone trying to remember, but he never really did, and he never, ever did it spontaneously.

And Carl never forgot. All the dates, the times, the ins and outs, were imprinted on his mind. He could tell you which of them had written a certain line, had come up with a certain riff. It was just the way his mind worked. He could still remember the birthdays of kids he’d been to primary school with, for fuck’s sake. 

He bypassed the cards, but headed towards the back of the shop to where the fridges were. Peter had recently discovered a liking for French rosé d’Anjou, which retailed in here at a princely five pounds ninety nine, so Carl decided he’d buy a bottle and they could drink it together by the open window, letting the breeze wash them clean, start again, forgive each other, move on again.

He walked home feeling a bit better, a bit lighter in himself. So what if Peter had forgotten? It was just a date. They were together now, that was the main thing. He bounded up the front steps, slid his key into the lock, and went to their flat door expecting to find it open, like it usually was when they were in. Certainly Carl had left it unlocked, on the latch. Only now it was locked. 

Carl unlocked both locks and looked around for Peter, but his boots were gone, and his wallet and keys from where he chucked them on the so-called dining table in the corner of the lounge. 

Where the hell had he gone? There was no note or anything. Carl went to check the kitchen in case they needed milk or anything, but the fridge was surprisingly well stocked. Milk smelt alright, too, so Carl made himself a cuppa and sat down.

Peter might’ve gone to buy weed, Carl supposed, which wouldn’t be an unwelcome anniversary present. He remembered the wine and his idea about drinking it by the sash window, so he shoved the couch forward, far too close to the TV for comfort, and dragged the tiny table over towards the window, one chair at either end of it. You could almost imagine you were in Paris, specially with the wine. They usually drank it from the bottle, passing it and spit between the two of them, until it ended messily in a kiss, but Carl knew there were wine glasses somewhere and climbed up on the kitchen counter to see to the back of the top cupboards. There were three – Lucie’s cast offs by the look of them – frosted glass with a wide purple stem, something she’d have loved for ten minutes at uni then quickly discarded. Carl pulled down two, lit a fag, shoved the packet back under the cuff of his shirt, inhaled, found the corkscrew, and went back into the living room. He put everything down and then wrestled with the window to make it go up. These old sash windows were pretty and all that, but fucking hell, the mechanism was a hundred years old and had been painted over so many times that as Carl shoved from the bottom, flakes of discoloured gloss paint fell on his hands and arms. He brushed them off when the window was a foot open. Sure, he could smell the takeaway on the next street and there was a dog barking in a garden opposite, but it didn’t matter, did it? Wine and his boy, that’s all he needed. 

He brought his cuppa over to the table and flicked ash out of the window as he drank it. Music, that’s what was needed. There was a tiny CD player that lived under the telly, and a stack of CDs next to it, haphazard, empty boxes and CDs falling everywhere. Carl reached for the Best of Nina Simone box, but it was empty. The CD itself was third down in the pile when Carl shuffled through. He started it playing and sat back down. Yeah, it was almost right. Still their shite little flat with the clanking pipes and the mouse problem, but it was almost romantic.

Sort of like their whole thing. A bit shite, but almost romantic. 

The key turned in the lock. Peter came in, smiling a bit. He had two bags in his hands, from the supermarket. “Alright?”

“Where did you disappear to?”

“It’s today, isn’t it? Since we first… you know.”

“Mmm,” Carl said, kicking his toes on the floor. “Thought you’d forgotten.”

“Course not.” He brandished the bags. “I’ve been out to buy stuff to make tea for you.” 

“Have you? That’s nice. Thank you.”

“Welcome.” Peter grinned. “Whole works, three courses and everything.”

“Thanks.”

“This is nice, though.” Peter came over to the table and put the bags down. “I bought wine, too.”

“Sure we’ll manage both.”

Peter poured rosé into two glasses and passed one to Carl. He raised his own. “Cheers. To us.”

“To us.” Carl drank a couple of mouthfuls and then started to root through the bags.

“Oi,” Peter said, slapping his hand away. “Wait and see, will you?”

“You didn’t really remember, did you?”

“Course I did.”

“Peter.”

“Alright, no. I knew it was around here, cos it was so hot, wasn’t it, high summer? But I didn’t know the exact date, no.”

“Right.” Carl felt himself curl in on himself, arms folded, feeling rubbish about it. 

It was fine. It didn’t mean Peter didn’t feel the same way Carl did. All he’d done was forget a date, and it was fine, course it was. It was just a date. Just one day out of their lives. 

“Then you stropped off, all pissed off and glowering at me and I thought, oh fuck, what’ve I done now?”

“You make me out to be an ogre or something,” Carl said. He reached for the cigarettes on the table.

Peter put his hand over Carl’s. “I’m sorry.” Then he leant down and kissed Carl’s forehead. “I’m sorry I forgot, okay? Let me make you tea.”

“It’s dinner,” Carl said.

Peter laughed and picked up the carriers and went into the kitchen. 

Carl lit a cigarette, waited a few minutes, and then wandered in to see what was happening. “What are you making?”

“You really don’t like surprises, do you?”

“Really don’t.” Carl hopped up on the counter, his feet banging against the cupboards. 

“Garlic bread to start with. Well, it’s focaccia or some shit. Looks fancy.” 

It was lying on the bench beside Carl, on an oven tray waiting to go in, and he poked it experimentally. “Looks good.”

“Then salmon and prawn stir fry with noodles,” Peter said as he bent to put the tray in the oven, and then to find the wok, a present from Carl’s mum on the grounds that “you can cook anything in it, Carl!” Sure, he’d never used it, but Peter was pretty good with it. He poured in some oil. “Then chocolate sponge and custard.”

“Mmm,” Carl said. Then, “I didn’t get you anything. Except the wine.”

“Which’ll do nicely, thank you. I didn’t get you anything, either, except for this.”

“This is nice, though. Really nice.” 

“Effusive praise, Biggles.” He started chopping an onion, adding it to the garlic he’d already done. 

“Didn’t think I was sulking that much when I left.”

“Well, glowering is probably more the word.”

“’Ck off.”

“Fuck off yerself.” Peter looked at him and grinned. “No, okay. You stropped out and I went looking in the diary for the exact date.”

“Today.” Carl kicked his thigh lightly. “One whole years of this.”

“Yeah, one whole year of sharing me entire life with you.”

“Is it so bad?”

“Not even half,” Peter said, and moved between Carl’s knees for a kiss. “I’d been looking, anyway. I’d been leafing through for something.”

“Mmm, I saw you. What were you after?”

“You’ll see.”

Carl sighed. “Another surprise.”

“Careful, love, you haven’t finished enjoying this one yet.”

Carl laughed despite himself. “Yeah, alright. Point taken.”

“Fetch the wine, will you?”

“Course.” Carl jumped down and went back into the living room. He turned Nina up a bit so they could hear her in the kitchen, filled both glasses again, and took them into the kitchen. Peter had added the garlic and onions to the wok and was stirring them with the one wooden spatula they owned, which was scarred and bent but still functioned perfectly well, thank you very much. Peter wouldn’t let him get another one.

Oddly boy. 

“Here,” Carl said, passing over the wine. 

“Shell the prawns, will you?”

Carl did so, quickly, deftly, discarding each part of the shell, then he chucked them into the wok with the salmon and stirred while Peter started to boil the noodles in a pan on the other ring. 

“Lyrics,” Peter said. “That’s what I was looking for.”

“Oh yeah? In your journal?”

“Yeah. I knew I’d started writing something when we got together, and I thought I should put it together for you.”

“You wrote me a song?” Carl looked at Peter, but he was frowning at the boiling water, pressing the dried noodles into it with a spoon. 

“Did indeed.”

“That’s… Thank you?”

“You haven’t heard it yet,” Peter laughed.

But it didn’t matter, because Carl already knew it would be great. They were always great, these songs. Even Peter knew that in his heart. They really were going to have to get round to finding a bass player and a drummer and doing something about it. 

The garlic bread and the stir fry were ready at the same time, so they took all the food into the living room and sat down at the table. A warm breeze was blowing in, but it was raining lightly too. Carl could hear the drips on the roof of the lean to below. 

“This is lovely,” Peter said. “It’s like being abroad.”

“Was exactly my thought,” Carl said, scooping a forkful of stir fry and pulling the noodles out of the tangle. 

“And Nina on the stereo, too. Perfect.” Peter had shuffled his seat so he was next to Carl, looking out of the window, and he leant across for a messy, oily, garlicky kiss. 

“How’s it start then, the song?” Carl asked when they came up for air. Fuck, the food would be getting cold and everything. 

“Well, it’s about us, obviously. About this place, sort of – poetic licence and all of that, so it’s not quite real, but close enough. Close enough that you’ll get the point.”

“How’s it go?”

“Well,” Peter said. “The first line goes ‘you put your love upon me, though I was but poor’.”

“You’re such a poet,” Carl said, and grinned across at Peter – his whatever-this-was.


End file.
